Curse These Old Bones - Chapter 53

Chapter 53

The pyre stood ready, a silent, accusing sentinel beneath the twilight sky. The wood was dry, painstakingly arranged, and steeped in oil to ensure the flames would devour everything. On it lay the corpse of Mantis. Five days had passed since the battle with Sasori, but its echoes were louder now than when the dust had first settled.

He stood at the edge of the gathered shinobi, his shadow long and still. The others waited in a loose semicircle, their faces hidden behind masks, their stances deceptively neutral. Yet Hiruzen saw it all: the tension in their shoulders, the subtle shifts of weight that betrayed their unease. Routine had dulled their responses. Death had worn them down until even this—the burning of a comrade—was little more than another task to complete before the next mission.

He hated it. He hated how normal it had become for them. Even for him. Not only for Hiruzen — but also for Gabriel. No, he had been corrupted by this world. 

He raised a hand, and Cobra stepped forward with the torch. The young ANBU’s movements were steady, precise, yet there was a stiffness to his grip as he struck flint to steel. The torch flared, its orange light briefly illuminating the sharp planes of his face. Hiruzen gestured again, and Cobra moved to the pyre. The wood crackled as the torch touched it, the flames beginning their inevitable climb.

Hiruzen spoke, his voice low, rasping like the embers that would soon consume Irochi’s body. “Mantis served Konoha with loyalty and honor. His true name was Irochi Anitaba. We will remember it.”

Another gesture, and Cat approached. Her captain. Her leader. She carried the second torch, her steps neither hurried nor hesitant, but Hiruzen could see it in the small things: the faint tremor in her hand, the way her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the wood. She wasn’t mourning; she wasn’t even numb. She was used. This was a habit for her now, another box to check, another task to endure.

And that knowledge tore at him more than her grief ever could.

The torch met the pyre, and the flames surged higher, consuming the oil-soaked wood in a furious roar. The smell of burning flesh followed, acrid and undeniable, but Hiruzen didn’t turn away. He owed Irochi that much. None of them would be buried. Not in this age of Edo Tensei and grotesque resurrection techniques. There would be no graves, no headstones. Only ashes.

The flames reflected in Hiruzen’s eyes, but the sorrow he felt wasn’t for Irochi’s death. That grief, if it could even be called that, was buried under years of hardened resolve. He had seen too many deaths, led too many funerals. No, the sadness that gnawed at him came from a far darker place: the sheer futility of it all.

This death had been unnecessary. Irochi had fallen not because of the enemy’s strength but because of Hiruzen’s hubris. He had tried to make Sasori of the Red Sand into a training exercise. A fucking training exercise. A chance to push his operatives to their limits under the watchful eye of their leader.

And he had failed them. He had failed Irochi.

If he had fought with all his might, if he hadn’t held back, Sasori might never have deployed that cursed puppet, the one that spewed indolore gas. The sealed mask had been breached, and Hiruzen hadn’t even noticed. He’d been too focused on what he now recognized as an illusion: the “main characters” of the battle. A concept that now felt hollow, laughable, grotesque. Not even after the end of the battle had he noticed — Sasori was…he had deserved his reputation. A true ninja. Not a character from a shonen. 

His gaze swept over the assembled shinobi. Zabuza leaned on his massive blade, his face a mask of impassivity, though his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the hilt. Pakura’s arms were crossed, her posture rigid. Anko stood with her head tilted back slightly.. Even Haku, whose youth should have made this moment unbearable, stood silent and still. Even Kushina, the unrelenting storm, appeared composed. It was normal for them. 

Normal.

Routine. 

That made him angrier than anything else.

This wasn’t a battle they had lost. They had killed Sasori, won the battle  — but they had lost the war against themselves. It was a piece of their humanity they lost, stripped away quietly, silently. This was the real enemy—not kunai, not puppets, not chakra-infused poisons. It was the erosion of what he was supposed to be fighting for. 

Civilization. 

Peace.

He had forgotten. 

He turned, his gaze finding Naruto and Sakura at the edge of the gathering. Naruto’s face was a carefully constructed mask, his defiance clashing with the guilt he hadn’t yet learned to name. Sakura, though—Sakura was crying. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, and her hands clutched at the hem of her shirt as though holding herself together by sheer force of will.

He approached her, each step deliberate, though he could feel the weight of the others’ eyes on his back. When he spoke, his words were for her, but his voice carried to all of them. “Don’t forget the sadness,” he said. “Irochi Anitaba deserves that much. We should never forget this feeling.”

His gaze swept the gathered ninjas.

"Never."

 And one by one, their heads bowed. A rare unity in reverence, though it felt too little, too late.

No, Hiruzen thought as he stepped back. He had grown complacent. Afraid, even. Afraid of becoming a statue of stone — literally—, afraid of his own mortality and in that fear, he had become reckless.

He glanced at the figure standing at the periphery: his blood clone, now in the guise of Sura. He had switched place with him a few hours ago. It was not the age, but his true body, old and worn, felt heavier than ever. Once they were back from Kusa, he resolved, he would summon Enma. 

He had been in this world for four months or so.

It was time.

He would ask about the sage training again. 

The flames roared behind him, a symphony of consuming fire, yet Hiruzen stood unmoved, his shadow long against the flickering inferno. The pyre devoured not only Irochi’s body but the fragile wings of his own pride, wax and feathers melted by the heat of hubris. He had soared too high, an Icarus blinded by the illusion of divinity, and the fall was long, the ground merciless. He was no god. Just a man who had dared to reach beyond mortal grasp, forgetting that even the heavens demand humility. 

He was no God of Shinobi. 

The pyre whispered truths he could no longer deny: it was time to remember his place among men.

— — — — 

Konoha

Sasuke grunted, the sharp exhale escaping his lips as he completed his final pull-up with his right hand, his body steady despite the strain. He dropped to the ground, landing with a controlled silence, and raised a kunai in his left hand to study his reflection in its faintly warped surface. His face stared back at him, familiar yet unfamiliar—his jaw a fraction sharper, his eyes deeper set. Still no sharingans. He had grown in the last few months. Not merely aged, but something more profound, a forging of sorts.

He wasn’t sharpened, exactly. No, it was more as if he had been unsheathed. A blade, now with a handle—a weapon with purpose, wielded by someone who had learned the necessity of control. The sting of cutting too deeply, too recklessly, and wounding not only the enemy but himself and those he cared for was no longer a distant lesson. It had become instinct. He would hurt others — but only ennemies of the village. He was a ninja, after all. That was the job. A killer. 

He moved without thinking, his body a flash of action as he dodged the kunai that streaked toward him. It cut the air where he had been an instant before, a subtle whistle accompanying its speed. The heavy vest he wore barely hindered him, the added weight more a tool for discipline than a burden.

“Good,” came a voice from the shadows—calm, assessing. Dove stepped forward, his form shimmering into view with a faint ripple, the practiced elegance of a seasoned ANBU operative. Dove, the Thirteenth ANBU Captain. His master. His sensei. His senpai. His kin.

The Brother he should have had. The thought hovered at the edges of Sasuke’s mind, unbidden yet steady, a quiet truth he rarely allowed himself to name.

“You’ve improved,” Dove said, his tone devoid of embellishment. A simple observation, and yet Sasuke felt the weight of its acknowledgment. “You’re ready for a B-rank mission.”

Sasuke nodded once. No surprise flickered across his face, only a quiet acceptance. He had known this was coming. The trajectory of his training had been clear—mercilessly clear.

“You’re going on your first hunt,” Dove continued, his gaze sharp, unyielding.

Sasuke’s response was immediate, steady. “I’ve hunted people before, Dove-sensei.”

“Yes,” Dove replied, his voice even, almost conversational, though his eyes betrayed none of his thoughts. “You’ve hunted people. Chūnins, at best. Not real shinobi. Not a real hunt.”

The words settled between them, heavy and unmistakable. Sasuke’s breath remained even, his grip firm on the kunai in his hand. The reflection in its surface wavered faintly, the distorted edges matching the flicker of something he couldn’t yet name in his chest. Anticipation? Resolve? Fear?

A real hunt.

And the target was someone Dove, who barely considered chunins as warriors, called a shinobi. 

The blade within him, sheathed and honed, awaited its next test. But this time, Sasuke knew, it would not be about merely cutting. It would be about surviving the cut.

Dove raised his hand in a fluid motion before his chakra flared subtly. The world around Sasuke shifted, the forest clearing dissolving into a swirl of shadows and refracted light. He let himself sink into the genjutsu without resistance, his trust in Dove absolute. Reality coalesced once more, but it was not the same. Before him now stood a towering man, his presence overwhelming, almost suffocating. The man’s eyes were blue, but not ordinary—darker ripples surrounded his pupils, giving them an unnerving depth that seemed to bore into Sasuke’s very core. His waist-length green hair cascaded like a waterfall, its topmost bangs framing his angular cheeks, while his dark, full lips curled into a faint predatory smile.

Sasuke had seen such teeth before. Kiri.

“This,” Dove’s voice echoed, calm yet edged with steel, “is Raiga Kurosuki. Our target.”

— — — 

Kusagakure 

Karin crouched in the corner, her back pressed so tightly against the splintered wall that the jagged wood bit into her skin. The air in the room was thick with the metallic stench of blood and something worse—something stale and suffocating, like death waiting patiently in the shadows. Her mother lay crumpled on the floor, her breaths shallow and wheezing, every rasp a desperate battle that she was losing. Blood leaked sluggishly from her arms, pooling around her in a sticky, spreading mess, dark against the battered floorboards. Her red hair, damp with sweat, clung to her face, streaked with streaks of her own blood. The wounds on her arms weren’t wounds anymore; they were gaping, infected craters, layered with swollen flesh and torn skin that spoke of countless bites—marks left by those who had fed on her like vultures stripping a carcass.

One of them was here now.

The man leaned over her mother, his face blank, eyes so devoid of life they seemed carved from stone. His fingers gripped her arm, the same way a butcher might seize a slab of meat, calloused and unfeeling. Without hesitation, he sank his teeth into the raw, pulpy flesh of her forearm, biting down hard enough to send a fresh spurt of blood cascading down her wrist. Her mother’s body spasmed, her mouth twisting open in a soundless cry, her eyes rolling back for a moment before her will dragged them shut. She didn’t scream—she never screamed anymore. Pain had become a constant, something so ordinary it no longer warranted expression. Her nails clawed weakly at the floor, scratching shallow marks into the already battered wood as the man sucked greedily, drawing not just blood but chakra. Karin watched the blue glow flicker faintly, traveling from her mother’s body into the man’s like a stolen flame. Her mother’s body seemed to shrink as he fed, her strength visibly draining, her once-strong frame now a fragile shell on the verge of collapse.

The man straightened, his lips wet and red, his expression unchanged. He spat once on the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as though her life force had been nothing more than a distasteful necessity. He didn’t bother to look at her mother, his gaze shifting instead to the other man leaning against the doorway, who regarded the scene with bored disinterest. “The tool’s breaking down,” he said coldly, his tone as lifeless as the room. “It won’t last much longer.”

Karin’s small frame tensed, her fingernails digging into her palms so deeply they threatened to pierce the skin. The word tool rang in her ears, colder than the wind that howled through Kusagakure’s forests. Not her mother. Not a person. Just a thing. Something to be used until it shattered.

The other man gave a low grunt, his lips curling into a faint smirk as his eyes settled on Karin. “We’ll move on to the little one next,” he said, the words dripping with finality, like a death sentence delivered without ceremony. “Younger stock. Might even last a bit longer.”

Karin’s stomach churned, the bile rising so thickly in her throat she thought she might vomit. She wanted to scream, to tear at them with her small fists, but her body wouldn’t move. She sat there, paralyzed, the words echoing in her skull: Move on to the little one.

Her mother’s body twitched again, a small, pitiful convulsion, her head tilting slightly as though searching for her daughter. Karin saw her lips quiver, but no sound came. Just a breath. A faint, broken sound that was almost a name. Her name.

Karin clenched her fists tighter, the pain of her nails cutting into her palms the only thing anchoring her to the moment. Her tears streamed silently down her cheeks, hot trails carving through the grime on her face. She stared at her mother, the woman who had once been her shield, her anchor in a world that never stopped hurting. And now, that woman was nothing but a discarded object, lying in a pool of her own blood while those monsters spoke over her like she was already gone. And as the men turned to leave, their boots crunching against the blood-soaked floor, Karin remained frozen in the corner, her nails breaking her skin, her mouth opening in a silent scream. The horror of it all pressed down on her, heavy and inescapable, as she stared at her mother’s trembling body and waited for the nightmare to claim her next.

— — — 

Land of Fire

The road back to Konoha stretched out before them, a winding path of silence broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the crunch of boots against dirt. Anko Mitarashi walked slightly behind the group, her sharp eyes flicking from shadow to shadow out of habit, though her thoughts lingered elsewhere. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a mission end with a pyre, but something about this one had left an ache in her chest she couldn’t quite shake. Irochi deserved better, she thought, but then again, didn’t they all?

Ahead, Sura, walking a few paces to his left, was tense. He’d been quiet for most of the journey, his usual sharp focus dulled, his eyes distant. He was thoughtful.

Zabuza broke the silence with his gravelly voice, his words cutting through the air like the edge of his blade. “Don’t lose sleep over an ANBU who couldn’t dodge gas. They knew the risks.”

Zabuza’s words were the spark to dry tinder. In a flash, Sura unsheathed Samehada, the blade humming as it came to life. The air shifted as chakra pulsed from the weapon, a low growl that sent a shiver up Anko’s spine. The attack came fast and brutal. Samehada crashed into Zabuza with enough force to stagger the swordsman, cutting through armor and flesh. Blood welled from a deep gash on Zabuza’s shoulder, and for the first time, his usually stoic expression cracked into something raw. Surprise. Pain. And then the cold realization that Sura had been holding back every time they sparred.

Zabuza let out a strained chuckle as he pressed a hand to his bleeding shoulder. “Well, shit,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “You’ve been pulling your hits this whole time. Guess I should’ve expected as much.”

Sura exhaled heavily, his posture rigid as he returned Samehada to its bandaged sheath. “I know. I let my emotions affect my decisions,” he said, the words clipped, almost bitter. “But they still have to be my motor. My goal. That’s the balance.”

Zabuza’s eyes narrowed, but there was no anger in his tone, only grudging respect as he rasped, “Just keep them pointed at the enemy next time.”

Sura didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as the tension seemed to bleed out of him. Then, unexpectedly, he turned toward Anko and Pakura, his lips curling into a smile. That smile—the one with just the right edge of mischief—was becoming too familiar, too damn effective. It softened the sharp lines of his face, made him look more human, less the warrior molded by blood and pain. Anko felt her chest tighten, and she didn’t need a mirror to know her lips were quirking up in response.

“When we get back to Konoha,” Sura said, his voice light, “we’re going to the cinema. Take a break.”

Anko raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “The cinema? After all this, you want to sit in a dark room and pretend we’re civilians?”

Sura’s grin widened. “Yes. And no horror movies. I'm sure Zabuza don’t handle them well.”

Anko snorted, shaking her head, though the faint warmth creeping into her expression betrayed her. “Fine. But you’re buying the popcorn.”

The group fell back into step, the tension easing, though the blood on Zabuza’s shoulder still flowing as he tried to heal himself with his basic medical ninjutsu and the faint hum of Samehada reminded them all that nothing about their lives was ever truly normal. Even so, for a fleeting moment, the promise of a shared pause, of flickering screens and mundane comforts, felt like enough.

Maybe, if she asked nicely, Sura would buy Dango for her? 

"What's the movie?", asked Pakura. Huh, nice. She was more and more talkative. 

Sura smiled at her — and Anko wanted also to be smiled to like that.

"Zabuza's going to like it. It's a Princess Fūn movie".